Rhapsody in Scarlet and Black
by balurinagirl
Summary: A Pimpernelfic that explores the relationships between Percy, Armand, and Marguerite. No real exciting plot, just how alone the characters feel and the different ways they feel it. Please rr!
1. One

Author's note: This story is adapted from a Scarlet Pimpernel RPG that a friend of mine and I took part in over the course of three years. So the credit doesn't only go to me, it's also Velvedere's. There will be lots of chapters, and a rather unsatisfying ending… Some ChauChau/Margot and some Percy/Margot and some Armand/Made-up character relations…. Reviews make me post more chapters. Au revoir!  
  
Through the forests and along rivers of the English countryside there was a wide gravel and dirt path often used by travelers, whether on foot, horseback, or carriage. It connected many of the rural towns, and was also the main path of travel to the Blakeney mansion. Along this path a solitary figure walked, a pack of supplies slung over his shoulder. It was a young man, probably no older than twenty, dressed in the clothes of a simple French traveler: a frock coat, ragged trousers, and a large floppy hat that shielded his mane of dark brown hair from the hot summer sun. Humming a cheerful, gently rolling tune as he walked steadily along, the young man was well aware of the carriage approaching from behind and as any rational traveler would do, stepped out of the way.  
  
The carriage was drawn by four black horses, as black as the wood which they pulled, and one would not expect such beautiful animals to be driven so harshly under the hot sun. But their driver lashed his whip, urging the horses on to greater speeds down the dirt path. Normally the young Frenchman would have been easily missed once he stepped out of the way of the carriage, but the driver seemed to have other ideas. Pulling his reigns with a fierce cry to the horses, he veered the carriage sharply to the left. What followed was a mix between a human cry as the Frenchman was born down upon and a high whinny as the horses reared to try and avoid trampling the young man. The horses turned sharply back as their reigns were pulled, and yet the man as bowled over by the blow of the horses and carriage, knocked into the dry grass and shrubs that lined the path. The carriage rattled on down the road, driven steadily as though the driver had noticed nothing. Shaking dust from his eyes, the young man pushed himself up, wary of his aches as well as casting a spiteful glare after the black carriage. His bag lay in the middle of the road, flattened and torn by wheels and horse hooves. The young man brushed dust and dirt from his clothes as he stood up and shouted a curse in deep French at the vanishing black form. Picking up his bag, he salvaged what he could from the mess, readjusted his hat, and began walking again. No humming was heard this time, and replacing the traveler's former merry mood was an expression of grim determination.  
  
Armand St. Just watched until the carriage's dust had completely disappeared, and kept walking, leaning into his steps as if walking into the wind, his voice a low mutter. "Ma chère soeur avait raison au sujet de lui..."  
  
Nearly at the same time the black carriage drawn by four foaming horses pulled up before the grand entrance to the Blakeney mansion. A sturdy "Whoa!" as the driver pulled the reins, and when the carriage came to a complete stop the driver stood and with practiced ease slid down to the ground, where a stable boy approached and was given the leads to the horses. The driver waited until the carriage was driven to the stable, but rather than approaching the door to announce himself like any normal visitor he paused a moment before the house, gazing up. The man was clad entirely in black, odd for such a hot day, and was a tall, thin figure. A pale hand rose up to push back the black hat concealing much of his face and revealed beneath it a man of French origin with a tied-back mane of brown hair and a shifty, fox-like disposition. His dark eyes rising up to the bay windows above, open to the fresh air in the heat of summer, he folded the hat under his arm and called out clearly in a moderate baritone voice to whomever should be listening: "Madame St. Just!"  
  
*~*~*~*  
  
Marguerite stifled her tears as quietly and quickly as possible… she knew that voice. Standing up a little shakily, still gulping from her crying, she crossed over to the large bedroom window and peered out at the man standing below. "Paul!" she cried out, happier than she probably should have been to see him. Not aware of her husband's grief downstairs-how could she be?-he was probably entertaining her friends, who sat on the veranda, forgotten. "Chauvelin, mon amis! I'll-I'll let you in." she called down, even though she could have rang for a servant. Trotting down the stairs, she furtively checked for her husband. Not in sight. Opening the door with some difficulty, she held up the front of her dress and almost ran down the path to the door and up to her---not her friend. She wasn't sure of Chauvelin's status in her mind, but she wasn't at all sure it was 'friend'. "Monsieur Chauvelin," she said, breathlessly. "What are you doing here?" she didn't mean it to come out sounding rude, and it didn't-she still sounded happy. And she was. With all of this that had happened-no matter how much she loved her husband and mistrusted this man-it was nice to have some connection of sorts to an outside world with none of the inanities that her life now contained.  
  
Chauvelin visibly brightened at the visible and vocal confirmation that she who he had come to see was indeed there. His grin grew wider as she hurried down to meet him...alone. Straightening, he brushed his clothes off again, and as she hurried out he stepped forward eagerly. "Mademoiselle," he said in reply, bowing in a courtly manner to take hold of her hand and kiss the back of it. Gazing up towards her face with those dark, fox-like eyes he let them rove over her features. He could still see the young, enterprising actress there. Little Marguerite... "Pleasure to see you, Madame." His smile turned genuinely warm, and straightening again he drew in a breath to speak further, but never made it.  
  
Percy didn't know how long he had sat there, perhaps fallen asleep, before the sound of horse hooves and a voice—Marguerite's voice—put him back on alert. Straightening in the chair, he blinked and gazed about him, as though having forgotten where he was. The rest of the house was quiet. Pushing himself up, grunting with the strain of his stiff back, Percy brushed back his hair and straightened his clothes before shakily heading for the front door to investigate.  
  
The sight of his wife being kissed by another man, even if it were just on her hand, flared up intense sparks of jealousy and rage inside him that Percy didn't know he possessed. Standing concealed in the entrance way, gazing out through the front door which Marguerite had left open, he took a quick evaluation of the visitor. A revolutionary, he growled inwardly, noting the red, white, and blue sash tied around the visitor's waist. Not kissing MY wife! Carefully the tall Englishman slipped the scarlet-red ring from his finger into the safety of his pocket, and barely taking time to wipe the redness from around his eyes he bounded out.  
  
"La! I thought I heard someone come about!" he called in his trademark voice of a complete ninny, holding aloft the letter he had withdrawn from his pocket. "Pardon, Madame, I had forgotten to inform you: a letter had arrived announcing a visitor who requested your presence. Sink me, where the memory goes!" Stepping to Marguerite's side, yet keeping a mental note of staying a just distance away, he paused as though noticing Chauvelin for the first time, and his face lit up in surprise. "I say now, chap, isn't it a tad hot out here to be in such a black outfit? Ah, well, I suppose not. It matches the carriage and horses, wot? Always said the French were well-coordinated." This was followed by a loud, haughty, inane laugh, during which Chauvelin said nothing but rather cast a glance at Marguerite. It was a questioning gaze, wondering if this fool was for real and whether or not he should be polite. He could only assume this was the renowned Percival Blakeney, rich aristocrat and husband to Marguerite. If it weren't for these factors Chauvelin would have thought nothing about smacking the idiot aside with as much regard as he had that peasant back on the road...  
  
Percy was all the while eying this stranger up and down. His eyes, normally lazy and carefree, were intense with hatred and instant disliking directed towards this stranger whom he knew by name but not by face. The glare, however, went unnoticed as the stranger was looking at his wife—again—and disguised by his voice, which went unchanged. "Well, Madame, who is your friend then?"  
  
A/N: Reviews? Please? There will be more plot-nice and dramatic- as time goes on. I promise. 


	2. Two

Clenching her teeth at the sudden, approaching whirlwind of Percy, Marguerite forced a hospitable smile onto her face and turned around, still holding Chauvelin's hand delicately. "Thank you, Percy, I appreciate your telling me…" she murmured. "Th-this is Monsieur Chauvelin, an old, dear friend of mine." she gave her husband a sharp look here, as if daring him to question her past. "And," she continued, glancing up to Chauvelin's scrutinizing brown eyes, "This is my husband, Sir Percival Blakeney." she told him, stepping back a little.   
  
"But," she added, hastily, disliking the looks that were being exchanged, "Let's step out of this sun and inside, shall we?" She looked appealingly at her husband.  
  
"Citoyen Paul Chauvelin," the tall, dark Frenchman completed, dropping Marguerite's petite hand as he bowed in a like manner--with a noticeable lack of the same sincerity--to Percy. "It is an honor to meet you in person, Sir. Your name is well-known across the Channel."  
  
"Is it now?" Percy mused, scratching his chin. He thought of the ring in his pocket, and that alone took all he had to keep from reaching in to pat and make sure it was still there. "Well, rightfully so. You people do have good taste. Citoyen, is it? Ah, well, can't say the same for leisure activities. There should be enough to do in France to keep you people from starting a bloody war!" Feigning a yawn, Percy turned on his heel, facing back to the house. "Yes, let's off, shall we?" Rounding behind Chauvelin, a devilish grin cut Percy's face a split second and with no hesitance he reached out and slapped the other's   
backside. Making no note of it, only grinning wider at the befuddled expression that paled Chauvelin's face--if it could get any moreso--Percy had the force of habit to extend his arm to his wife for her to take as they walked along, but gazing at her...he remembered...and self-consciously drew his arm back and headed off the small trio back into the house, talking inanely about one thing or another as he expected the two of them to follow.  
  
Chauvelin hung behind, glaring after Percy with a mix of confusion and anger, and with a sputter in deep French all he could manage was: "You...left France...for that?!"  
  
Momentarily forgetting her husband, Marguerite gazed her own at Chauvelin. "Oui, yes, apparently," she replied lightly, turning again to lead him into the house. Bowing back for a second, she added a little shyly, "I'm sorry...", as if apologizing for her husband, or maybe the way everyone was acting. Then she looked questioningly at him again. "Why did you come, Chauvelin? You must have a reason, you always do..." she asked softly, in French, putting her hands on her hips. "It wasn't just to comment on my husband, or lack thereof." Letting her face fall (Percy!), she mumbled something else in French, that if you strained to hear: "It has to be obvious that things aren't always happy..."  
  
Chauvelin adorned his hat back into place and followed her resolutely; his posture never seemed to abandon that ramrod-straight military rigidness. "It doesn't worry me, mademoiselle," he said, acknowledging her apology with a curt nod. Being the last one in he took the liberty to close the main door and continue on after Percy, who beelined for the same den room he had just left. "The truth is, Cherie, that national affairs had brought me to England, and it so happened that I would be passing by this way and thought I might pay an old friend a visit. And yet in coming here I discovered all the more a reason to come see you." A slight smile, a chuckle from a thought only Chauvelin knew that glimmered in his dark eyes. "It would be preferable if we could discuss it alone." Chauvelin spoke the last in French as he came into the room Percy had led them to, assuming that her idiot husband knew not a word of the language. Casting a glance at the Englishman who stood now before the fireplace, examining something on the mantle, Chauvelin's expression darkened at Marguerite's next words, and with a slight turn to her he continued on in their own tongue. "That is plain to see, Madame. No one would have ever thought the cleverest woman in Europe, Madame St. Just, would have fallen into the bonds of wedlock with such a renowned fool." His eyes turned fully on her, curious and prying. "It's a pity, really...I thought you were more intelligent than that."  
  
Percy listened though his back was turned, and contrary to popular belief he understood every word of French the two uttered. A sigh as though frustrated, and he turned with the same inane grin back to the both of them. "Oh, odd's fish, man! Do stop all that muttering in French. You speak English so wonderfully; I should think you'd hate to hide the fact. Sink me, wherever did you learn?"  
  
"The Academie de Paris," Chauvelin answered, nodding at Marguerite with a foxy smile. "Where we first met."  
  
"That so?" Percy chuckled. "Well, 'tis nice to get together with old friends, wot?"  
  
"Alone? Something else..?" Marguerite started to murmur in reply, one eyebrow arched. Then she carefully clenched her hands into fists at her sides, keeping control over her temper. "Oui, maybe I'm stupid, but-he wasn't like this...I really am in love with him, who he used to be, Chauvelin." switching back to English for Percy, "Yes. It is nice to be---reunited." she replied, shortly. In quick French, so that Percy might have blinked and missed it.."National affairs? Of what kind?" Suddenly she had sneaking suspicion she knew why Chauvelin wanted to talk to her...'alone'. "Percy...er, have we got anything we can feed our guest? My guest?" she gestured toward the cold, empty teapot at the far end of the room. She asked only because, though they had servants, butlers and the like-she tended to get things herself. But her husband..? She didn't know the proper English custom. Not yet. She looked a little uncertainly at the two men in the room, before getting hesitantly to her feet.  
  
"Love?" Chauvelin echoed in French, his face brightening as though surprised Marguerite even understood the concept of it. "Is that what it was?" A little ironic laugh, his shoulders crunched together as though to withhold a deeper, more vulgar comment. "It's a good thing, then, that you weren't in France at the time, Madame, for if you'd have heard some of the things said about your wedding as viewed by others--"  
  
"I heard love in there somewhere!" Percy cut Chauvelin off again, bouncing around the chair he stood by, closing the distance between the three of them. "Why, Chaubertin! Is there a lady friend involved in this conversation?"  
  
"Chauvelin, sil vous plait," the Frenchman corrected, removing his hat again to set it solemnly against his chest, his face falling in what could have been sorrow. "Oui, monsieur. Sadly, my lady friend passed some time ago." He then tossed his hat into the seat beside him, content with the half-truth. Percy reeled, a hand to his chest.  
  
"Lud love me! Tragic things always happen to the best of men."  
  
"Yes, they do."  
  
The cold stares returned, as though hidden meanings detected in both mens' statements. They were sizing each other up, like two wolves preparing to fight over the choice female. When the tense silence seemed enough to shatter glass Percy broke it by whirling and with a flourish bowing to Marguerite with a ridiculous air. "Of course, Madame. I'll see what the cook has in store." Righting himself, he turned his attention back towards the hallway they had come. "Now where is that demmed woman..." He turned back with the same twirling energy he had come, and intentionally or not slammed into Chauvelin on the way. Pausing as the tall, dark Frenchman stumbled backwards into a chair with a heavy plop, Percy just cocked his brows curiously. "That tired, eh, Shoveling? Must have been a long journey." And he strode for the hallway with the confidence of a peacock, stopping in the doorway to glance back. "Anything in particular, dear?"  
  
Grumbling, Chauvelin pushed himself back up, disguising his curses as he brushed off his clothes and turned his back to Marguerite's husband, at the same time speaking in a harsh whisper to her: "National affairs of the utmost importance, chere. You might be wise to hear me out. It concerns you, most of all." 


	3. Three

"No, Percy, it's all right. " Their disagreement momentarily forgotten, Marguerite gave him a distracted smile before turning back to Chauvelin. All trace of affection for the man gone, she asked, in cold, formal French: "How does it concern me this time, Chauvelin? Last time.." she stopped there, letting her words hang in the air. Crossing her arms across her chest, she looked at him cautiously; "Though it might be best if you were to tell me..."  
  
Equally cold, equally formal, Chauvelin's dark eyes narrowed on her childlike face as he replied. "Last time has no bearing on this case, mademoiselle. It involves..." He paused, noticing Percy still lingering in the doorway. With a start, as though having been caught listening, Percy flared back to the usual energy of the nincompoop.  
  
"Ah, yes, quite right. Now where is that cook? Oh, cooooooook-ie!" On silent steps despite his long strides, Percy vanished into the deeper corridors of the mansion, his turned-away face fixed solidly with determination as he sped as quickly as he could manage. He wasn't leaving Marguerite alone with that man any longer than he had to.  
  
A visible wave of relief swept over Chauvelin when Percy had gone, his tall, thin frame relaxing and turning back to Marguerite. Letting his dark eyes rove over her, he saw ever more as the same little actress he'd known. The same face radiating child-like innocence, no matter how much he knew better it had always appeared that way. Her bright blue eyes, glimmering with that keen intelligence and wit, her smooth pale skin, like ivory, and her petite feminine mouth that alone could master any expression. Watching her now, not a bit changed from the girl he knew in France, he wondered if her view of him had changed at all. Possibly, not entirely, was his conclusion. You can't kill feelings that intense. Blinking as though to bring him back to his senses, the Frenchman straightened with the same formal attitude, drawing a sharp breath. "Tell me, Marguerite, you do know of the Scarlet Pimpernel, don't you?"  
  
"Everyone knows of the Scarlet Pimpernel," she replied lightly, listening to her husband's steps receding quietly down the hall. "You must know by now, Chauvelin, he's the only topic of conversation." Staring at him knowingly, she continued, "But surely you don't just want to know that. You already did, I'm sure." Eyeing him in much the way he was eyeing her, she noted that he, also, looked much the same-just more-determined, it seemed. The same stormy eyes, darkly handsome features...if it wasn't for his more-or-less obsessions with the ideals of France, they could very well have… no, best not to think about it.  
  
"What is it, Chauvelin?"  
  
"Oh no, chère," Chauvelin said lightly, stepping closer to her. Unclasping his hands from behind his back he took hold of her arm just above her elbow, not a tight or painful hold but enough to emphasize his words and keep her sure attention. "He is much more than conversation. We have more proof than ever now that he does exist, Marguerite." Not bothering to clarify who "we" was, he went on, his face deep and earnest in seriousness, yet alight with those passionate fires reserved for only when he spoke of the country he so loved and its affairs. "And more than that, all evidence points to someone from England who lives near the channel." He took another step closer until he was a breath's distance from her ear so that he could speak without any risk of detection. "And there is even more to support that your husband is involved, perhaps deeper than he should be." He drew back to his previous position, letting the news make its own way.  
  
Already shaking him loose when he drew back, Marguerite let out a shrill giggle- unlike her, but she couldn't even fathom the idea. "Percy?! But-but.." she sputtered, before regaining control of herself. "My husband-you said yourself-he's not….Chauvelin!" she finally let out in anguish. "You're not serious." Finally deciding it had to be some sort of trick. "Chauvelin, I mean it. What do you want? I'm hardly in the mood for-" she pushed her hair out of her face in annoyance and finally just sputtered, at a loss for words; "Prove it, Citizen, if that's what you want me to believe!"  
  
"One doesn't have to be a genius to be of help to the traitor," Chauvelin replied coldly, having already thoroughly thought through the entire situation. "His money would be more than enough to service the activities of the Pimpernel, his name a renowned password, and his many residences the perfect place to house the Pimpernel's men and their escapees. Trust me, Madame, it is quite fathomable." He laughed then, a hollow sound despite its genuine meaning, and turned away from her to approach the mantle where he eyed a small painted portrait of Percy and Marguerite in a golden frame. Marguerite looked ravishing in her wedding dress, and rightfully so, it was just a pity she was with the wrong man. "Prove it," he echoed, keeping his back to her. The tone of his voice was that of a snake waiting to strike, and one that had a clear shot and perfect aim. "Even you can't deny that Monsieur Blakeney is so often away from home, taking trips across the Channel to and from France. What does he do on those visits? Can you tell me that, chère? Does he ever tell you?" A cold mockery here, because above all Chauvelin knew he didn't. Even if Percy had made some excuse, that's all it was. An excuse. With Marguerite's attention caught, he planted the final seed of suspicion. "For all you know of your husband, Madame, he could not only be helping the Pimpernel destroy the efforts of France but may be harboring a mistress across the Channel, as well…" She couldn't see it, but Chauvelin's grin as he spoke was evil, mocking with vile pleasure. He was enjoying this too much.  
  
Marguerite's expression didn't waver, but if you looked closely enough, you'd see her eyes grow hard and her jaw set. When she spoke it was very, very softly. "What is it you want, Chauvelin? You didn't come here simply to mock me." clenching her hands again into fists, she wished she hadn't sent her husband away in the first place-what was keeping him? She couldn't even bear to think of Percy across that channel by himself, let alone with a woman… "If you didn't want something," she continued, in a thoughtful, accusing tone, "you wouldn't be here."  
  
Chauvelin scoffed lightly to himself, looking down at his waistcoat to caress the red, white, and blue sash about his waist fondly. His true colors...all that he stood for. Sighing, he answered in a much softer tone, but none the less intense. "You're right, of course, Marguerite. You always are." A long pause in which Chauvelin thought, even more fondly: 'you always were'.   
  
"I want you, Marguerite, to help me in finding the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel so that my colleagues and I can put a stop to his meddling in affairs that aren't his." He turned back to her, for once his gaze sincere, pleading in earnest. "You're the cleverest woman in Europe, chère, and have won that title with good reason. As an actress and a woman you can persuade information from people and root out things I cannot. I came here to ask you to help your country, Madame. This isn't a personal favor I'm asking, it's for France. There's great things happening in our home, Marguerite, and we can't afford to let the interference of one man stop us now." He paused, his eyes roving her face. "You and I usually work so well together..." Stopping suddenly, he turned back, straightening the neck of his coat. "Besides, your assistance might clear your husband of some major charges...should he be convicted."  
  
"Blackmail," Marguerite murmured, sounding amused. But all amusement faded as she snapped, "You want me to betray my husband as I betrayed the Marquis de St. Cyr for you, is that it?" eyes flashing, she ceased, her breast heaving with emotion. "If helping my country means betraying Percy, or the Scarlet Pimpernel....mon dieu, I don't know, Chauvelin, what it is you'd have me do...he already has absolute contempt for his wife." shaking her head, she finally mumbled, staring directly at the floor, "...how could I help you, anyway?" she asked, sullenly. Where was Percy? As soon as Chauvelin had gone, she would tell him everything. And, and he'd be the old Percy, and he'd know what to do, and they'd love each other again...  
  
Content with this solution, she stubbornly pressed, "What would Percy's...charge be? What eviden-" changing her mind, she asked instead, "What could I do to-" she swallowed "-lighten whatever you were going to-to.." her voice wavered on the last words and she clamped her mouth shut. This man in front of her had almost complete control-and she hated it.  
  
"Betray him for his own sake," Chauvelin snapped in reply, his voice rising sharply but still keeping wary of any eavesdroppers. "You can keep him from getting in any deeper than he already is. Et puis, what want have you for him? You yourself say he hates you." A pause in which he licked his dry lips, noticing his fist was clenched and forcing it to release. "You can do plenty, chère. Surely there is a room somewhere in this mansion of yours that your husband keeps locked up, yet he is constantly inside doing things you don't know, hoarding charts and letters that he doesn't let you see. What you can do is find those things he hides so secretively when is he away on one of his trips. You find them and relay to me every piece of information you come across…where he goes, who the letters are from, any indication of what he does when he is in France. Surely a woman as witty as Marguerite St. Just can pull that off under the nose of a fool." Here he laughed, mocking her worry and reveling in the fact he had her cornered. "His charge? Treason, Madame. Treason against England, for the Prince of Wales himself has questioned Sir Blakeney about these matters and was given false information. And these deeds are acts of war against France. Should your husband be so unfortunately caught in France and convicted of these charges, it's the guillotine for sure." A strange delight shone in Chauvelin's eyes as he said this, one he couldn't hide. "But you can help, Marguerite. Get me the information I need to find the Pimpernel himself and I can pull my strings to keep your husband out of harm's way. All I want is the Pimpernel. Your husband's life is of no interest to me." Little did he know he was speaking of the very same person…  
  
Nor did he know that at that moment that very person was in his own dilemma as he listened to every word that was uttered between them. The enormous house that Percy and Marguerite resided in was one that had been built by Percy's father when he finally settled in England. Percy had grown up in this house, and knew each and every direction, entrance, and exit of the many hidden passages that wound throughout the place between the walls. After making for the kitchen and knowing he was out of sight he ducked into one such passage concealed under a tapestry, and removing his shoes he moved silently along until he knew form experience that he stood behind the thin layer of building material that separated him from the den Marguerite and that man conversed in. A tiny peephole, no larger than a coin, allowed sufficient space for him to listen carefully to their conversation, his back pressed against the lining of the narrow corridor with his eyes focused intently ahead. Fearing the worst as their words grew deeper and deeper in intensity, he clenched his eyes shut, pressing his hands in strain against the wall as though making a physical effort that would carry out his thoughts. "Don't do it, Marguerite," he whispered under his breath as one would a prayer. "Don't agree to anything…he's too close to the truth to be comfortable, yes, but don't agree to anything! Lord, give me a sign that I can trust you…" He knew well enough that had he known where the conversation was going he could have slipped back out and interrupted them, not giving his wife the chance to answer, but in order to do so he would have to make his way back through the passageways and into the kitchen, which would leave the chance for them to speak on without his knowing. If only she could hear him…  
  
"Mon dieu," Marguerite said again, her voice also rising slightly. "Chauvelin...how can I-" she stopped short. Casting a glance at the doorway-had she heard Percy returning?-no, she hadn't. "How can I do that to my husband? If both of you were to hate me or not, I can't, I can't.." she continued, spitefully, "If I found evidence against him you'd send him to the guillotine anyway." crossing her arms and turning half-away from him, she added, "France is no longer my country, Monsieur-and I have no wish to promote the activities going on in Paris." her voice was hard, and she meant for the subject to be closed-but knowing Chauvelin, it was anything but.  
  
Concealed in the passage, Percy threw his fists in the air in silent triumph. Yes! Oh, yes, Marguerite! That's my girl! Bravo! Turning so that he faced the wall he was listening against, he leaned forward and kissed the place where he estimated Marguerite to be standing, drawing away after a pause with a smile warm and genuine. Equally as silent, he shuffled back the way he came as quickly as he could without making a sound. Once out of the passage way he slipped back into the kitchen where he had originally intended to go and grabbed a tray prepared with small snack cakes and crackers and a few cups waiting for tea. Striking up the same merry hum he pranced joyfully back to the den.  
  
"You can," Chauvelin urged. "You can! I give you my word: get me what I want and your husband will not be harmed. There is only one man France wants, and that's--"  
  
"That demmed elusive Pimpernel!" Percy sang as he appeared back into the airy room, his face plastered with inane grins that firstly landed on Marguerite. "As you requested, milady!" Setting the tray down, he straightened, pulling the edges of his coat with a huff as though exhausted. "So...what did I miss?"  
  
At the appearance of the ninny Chauvelin immediately fell quiet, stiffening visibly as he stepped quickly away from Marguerite. "Nothing, monsieur. Just some idle chit-chat, I'm afraid."  
  
Seeming disappointed, Percy pouted a moment, and then shrugged the matter away with a gesture to the tray. "Ah, well, demmed luck. Here you are: the best of our hors d'vours."  
  
Oddly enough, Percy had pronounced the French word as it was spelled, ending up saying something as to the aspect of "horse devourers" rather than what was correct. Shaking his head in despair for the nincompoop, Chauvelin stepped forward to examine the tray, on the verge of correcting Percy when something he noticed stopped him. "Monsiuer?" he asked quizzically, gesturing to Percy's feet. Looking down in genuine ignorance, Percy saw too late that he had left his shoes in the passageway. Turning as red as the Pimpernel's said color, he reached up to scratch his chin, blue eyes glancing up to Marguerite for a moment.  
  
"Well, sink me! How did that happen?" he laughed. 


	4. Four

Marguerite suppressed a laugh that she couldn't help, even with Chauvelin's words tormenting her thoughts. In quick French, before turning to her husband, "The subject is closed, Chauvelin! And if you so much as lay a finger on my husband I'll-" she let her words hang ominously in the air. As an afterthought, in polite, careful English, she placed one more question over Chauvelin's head: "How long will you be saying with us, Monsieur?" It was not an invitation: anyone listening, even, perhaps, her husband could tell that. But how Chauvelin took it was quite another matter.   
And she still wanted to talk to Percy alone…apologize, and maybe-maybe he'd understand. If she'd told the old Percy about Chauvelin, his blackmail and accusations, he'd have known what to do in a second. He'd have helped her.  
  
In response to her threat Chauvelin's eyes darted to Marguerite dangerously, narrowing in so vicious a reply that he couldn't voice it in the presence of her husband. Clenching his fist so hard in frustration it nearly trembled; Chauvelin's voice was heavily restrained as he bent to retrieve his hat. "I apologize, Madame, but I'm afraid not long. I will be staying in London." Stiffly he turned back to Marguerite, fixing her with an angry stare that could have pierced glass. "But I would like to return for another visit...very soon." A curt bow to Marguerite, and Chauvelin adorned his hat, turned sharply on his heel, and stalked out back towards the front door he had come through. In doing so he passed by Percy, who stood leaning casually against one of the taller chairs with a devil-may-care grin, his blue eyes casually following Chauvelin's dark form as he swept by him.  
  
"Leaving so soon?" he feigned a pout. Chauvelin stopped, turning his gaze sharply to the tall Englishman. "Not even going to stay for the refreshments?"  
  
"Pardon et moi, Sir," Chauvelin nodded coldly. "But I have pressing business." Over his shoulder he glanced back at Marguerite, but only for a moment. "You are a very lucky man, Monsieur Blakeney. Au revoir."  
  
Percy shrugged at the excuse, fluttering his hand as the Frenchman passed on by. "Ah well, toodle pip then, Shoveling." And he followed the comment with another playful slap on the backside.  
  
"Chauvelin!" he snarled, vanishing from sight while ruefully rubbing the seat of his trousers. Shortly after was the slam of the heavy front door, and when the tell-tale sounds of horse hooves and carriage wheels rumbled off in the distance Percy doubled over and slapped his thigh, laughing furiously. "Oh ho ho! My dear! You have the most charming friends!" Straightening, his smile was warm and genuine as his eyes turned to his wife, bright and shining with the rapture of remembering how she had refused that rogue's proposition. He could trust her... "Oh, Marguerite," he hummed happily, and strode the short distance to her swiftly to throw his arms about her in an affectionate hug, never bothering to explain himself. How he loved this woman!  
  
Marguerite hugged him back, cautiously, but not before smiling sweetly at the departing Chauvelin. "Do make it soon. Your visits are so entertaining." Waiting until the black-clothed figure was well out the slammed door, Marguerite turned back to Percy and pulled a little away. "Percy, you are my husband, c'est correct?" she paused, and added, a little hesitantly; "And I can tell you anything..?" Normally, because of the events and his actions of the past few-Weeks? Months?-but the fact that this was an emergency, coupled with his sudden change of demeanor, encouraged her to tell him. If he gave her the idiotic reply she half-expected, she would make something else up…but she was hopeful. And Chauvelin's words had sent a chill through her heart. Would he really have her husband killed? Could he? All of their actions aside, she loved him. Maybe in the beginning it had been the thrill of being loved passionately and unconditionally...but since his sudden coldness, she found that she did love him, English turkey or not.  
  
Percy was so lost in gazing at her face, keeping his arms around her waist as though refusing to let her go even if she were to pull away, that he barely heard her words. He could have stayed there forever, just looking at her. His warm smile faded slightly at her question, the bluntness of it and how awkward it seemed. "Of course, Madame. Anything your little heart desires." But inwardly he hesitated. What had made her ask such a thing? Perhaps it was the gravity of the conversation he'd overheard that planted the suggestion in his mind. What did she plan on telling him? About what Chauvelin had said? About his position in the League of the Pimpernel? As the Pimpernel?! Worry gave way to alarm, but the same grin of pure happiness remained plastered on his face. If she did ask, what would he tell her? He could laugh it off as he always did, play the fool, and yet that would only ruin this precious moment: drive the wedge between them. And yet if he told her...it would put her in such danger. The threats Chauvelin had directed towards him would fall over her, too. How could he do that to her? Put her in that kind of danger? No...oh Lord, if only he had never fallen in love! It would make things so much easier...and yet Percival Blakeney wouldn't trade his love with Marguerite for anything. He only wanted to protect her. "What is it, dear?"  
  
Marguerite smiled back, waveringly, suddenly unsure. If she asked? If he said yes? Oh God! "Well..." she began, choosing her words carefully, not withdrawing from his embrace, "Chauvelin was here, and... he wanted me to... Percy, he wants me to betray the Scarlet Pimpernel. I don't even know who he is, I promise-and I told him no, I wouldn't help...except he seems to think that you're part of the league and...and... Oh, Percy, don't go back to France, Chauvelin said he'd...he'd have you killed… and I wouldn't be able to bear it if you never came back. I would kill myself!" panting for breath after this outburst, a couple of tears welled up in her eyes. Had she made the right choice, sending Chauvelin away? Or should she have protected her husband? Would Chauvelin actually try anything? Should she have told Percy at all? For once she had no idea, for anything, and she closed her eyes against the questions.  
  
If there was hesitance before, now Percy was entirely frozen. Smile fading gradually at the memory of what he had heard between the conversation of her and that man, he remembered what he had told her. She had opened up the topic he had most dreaded, and if he had previously thought of any kind of excuse he couldn't remember it now. Sighing, he gazed into her face. So beautiful...how could he lie to her? How could he drive them apart and inflict so much pain? He'd done enough of that already. Yet he couldn't tell her the truth...for both their sakes. At this paradox Percy found himself standing: he couldn't lie to her, couldn't tell her the truth...what should he say?  
  
He didn't say anything.  
  
As her eyes closed Percy watched the peaceful look of sleep about her childlike, innocent face. He had never had many opportunities to see her asleep, even if she still stood, and yet she looked so serene...like an angel. Percy wouldn't let words soil anything, and so rather than replying he leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead. Then letting his arms about her waist relax he pulled away, turned on his heel, and walked out. Just like that. He walked out, not a word spoken, and didn't stop until he had gone from the room and the heavy oak door to his study was closed behind him.  
  
Marguerite did as she always did; fled to the sanctuary of the room she shared with no one. 


	5. Five

Percy leaned heavily over the maps and charts laid out over his study desk: of the Channel, of France, of England...all of them marked in secret escape routes and pathways he'd used in previous missions and some which still lay in wait for future use. He heaved a sigh, staring down at them, and in lifeless, mechanical movements reached back into his pocket and withdrew the scarlet-red ring. Holding it aloft, the sunlight played off its golden setting and scarlet-colored ruby stone like a mirror, outlining the curling flower which had been carved with perfect precision into its stone. Holding it tight, he stared at it, his face darkening as the thoughts rushed by in his mind. "Are you worth it?" he demanded quietly, voice as hard as the ring's metal. Straightening, he glared at the object as though it could hear him. "Are you?!" Percy certainly had his doubts. He'd always written off these doubts as childish, that the lives he saved in France were well worth the sacrifices he made. But recently...these developments with Marguerite...he was beginning to have his doubts. How could he have been so careless as to not consider the consequences of being married with what he did? How could he keep doing this to Marguerite... "You're not!" he suddenly roared in anger rarely portrayed by Percival Blakeney, and with a furious heave with strength that went unseen in his massive frame by the public, Percy hurled the ring across the room. Slamming directly into a small framed pictured, it shattered the glass and knocked the frame to the floor. Seething, Percy stomped across the room to pick it up, yet stopped in mid-crouch as he saw the portrait he had shattered. It was Marguerite.  
  
"Oh Lord," Percy wailed and let himself fall to his knees amid the broken glass, his anger converting to sorrow as he gazed at the small painting. Reaching down he gently picked up the tiny canvas and held it before him, his other hand reaching up to stroke the thick auburn curls and crimson red lips of his wife. Not real...only paint. A timid knock on the heavy study door brought Percy whirling back to himself.  
  
Fearing it was Marguerite, Percy picked himself up and quickly used the canvas portrait to shovel the peices of broken glass and wood under a nearby dresser where they wouldn't be seen. Slipping on his ring, he straightened, tossing the canvas underneath with the rest of it and smoothing back his features as he made for the door. "Yes, who is it?"  
  
"It's me, Sir," came an equally timid voice. Expression lightening with surprise, Percy hurriedly unlocked the heavy wooden door and tossed it open with ease, his grin uncontained at the young face he saw there.  
  
"Armand! What the devil are--egads, lad! Whatever happened to you?"  
  
Looking down sheepishly at his torn and dusty attire, Armand shrugged and self-consciusly patted himself to make more presentable. "Someone back along the road tried to run me down with their carriage." Shrugging, the young Frenchman put on a brave face before the leader he adored and straightened. "I'm alright, sir, and they maagesd to at least not destroy these." From within his vest Armand St. Just drew a small leather packet and quickly turned it over to Percy's hands, his brown eyes eager. "Letters and directions from Paris. I made for here as soon as they were put in my hands."  
  
Percy took the packet--and very heavy one--and gazed over its smooth front. Scrawled in red in were the letters "SP," and despite the grim foreboding that fell over the Englishman he managed a smile and grateful nod to Armand. "Good man. Good work." And slowly he turned back to his study, already opening the packet. "There's a fresh change of clothes in that closet there, if you'd prefer."  
  
Blushing again, Armand nodded and made for the indicated spot. "Merci, Sir." Reaching for the garments laid aside that were approximately Armand's size--a clean white shirt, brown vest trimmed in gold lace, brown silk breeches and the usual tights and shoes of the fashion age--he slipped them on eagerly, tossing the older ones aside carefully. "Pardon e moi, Sir, but...if you don't mind...where is my sister?" He turned to look fully at Percy again, tying a black ribbon to hold back his brown mane of hair.  
  
Percy kept his eyes trained intensely on the papers spread out before him, hiding the quiver in his voice. "Upstairs, I imagine, charming the birds out of the trees and right into her window."  
  
Armand grinned, and, bowing with another vocal thanks, he left Percy to solitude and made for the stairs, bouncing up with youthful energy to what he knew was Marguerite's room. Supposed to be her husband's as well as hers, but Armand knew very little about the problems between them, a matter which Percy had hoped to keep. Armand sacrificed himself enough as it was in the League of the Pimpernel without having to worry about Percy's problems, of course Percy knew that if Armand ever knew the extent of their troubles--as he figured he eventually would--Armand would stop at nothing to do what he could to help. Demmed little boy...  
  
Knocking gently on Marguerite's doorframe, Armand took special care in poking his head in, calling gently in that soft, timid voice of his: "Margot?"  
  
Marguerite looked up from her lap, bouncing to her feet. "Armand!" she crowed joyfully, trotting over to him. "Armand, Armand, Armand! What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me?" she hugged him joyfully, hardly able to contain her excitement; if anyone vied for her love for her husband, it was her brother, whom she loved equally well. Her smile wavered a little: what was he doing here, unannounced? She looked down, still smiling. And in Percy's clothes, too!  
  
Armand's smile was just as wide and his hug twice as welcoming as he threw his arms around his sister, not stopping his joyful laugh that was enough to convey the mutual excitement at being with her again. A loving squeeze, and he stood back at arm's length to view her entirely, his hands still keeping a gentle hold on hers. "Margot," he chuckled again, calling her by the pet name they had so often used as children. He dropped back into speaking French, a language which he was more comfortable with. "You never cease to amaze me. How is it you look more beautiful each time I see you?" Another quick brotherly hug and Armand paused in the joyous tidings to follow her gaze down at himself, imagining her confusion. "Pardon the attire," he laughed good-naturedly, "but mine got a little soiled on the journey here." Which brought him back to her inquiries. Armand didn't like lying—to his sister, most of all—and so when the times were necessary he worked in as much as the truth as he could, or just avoided a straight answer altogether. "What?" he turned his head slightly in a playful pout. "Now a fellow must have a reason to come and see his sister?" Another laugh, in which he stopped to pick Marguerite up into his arms and twirl her around, setting her back down in a seat on the edge of her bed. Kneeling beside her, he placed his chin and folded hands on her knees, gazing up with those youthful brown eyes as though a puppy caught in the act of wrongdoing. "Oh, alright. I was in Paris, as you well know, and hearing that there was to be a major event that I would have rather had no part in I bought passage across the Channel for a visit. Surprise!" Emphasis on the eyes, his voice playfully toning down. "Is that alright?"  
  
What Armand didn't tell her was that the "event" was the public execution of an entire aristocrat family by beheading, which was scheduled to happen tomorrow morning at dawn. This information which he had obtained easily in the guise of a Revolutionary was what made him seek out the family and collect the information needed for the Pimpernel's rescue, which Percy was downstairs reading this very moment. Percy had always told him it was unwise for Armand to play back and forth like this. Being the Pimpernel was one thing, as long as he stayed majorly in England and kept up his disguises, he was safe. But Armand, peasant though he may be, was as disgusted with the way the Revolution had turned as Percy was. Surely, the intent was noble, but neither would stand for so much blood being shed. Armand posed as a Revolutionary in Paris, fighting for his people and country against the nobility, and yet doubled back every time he could to assist the Pimpernel in stopping it. A dangerous way of life, indeed, but Armand was firmly convinced he knew sure-fire ways to slip by Chauvelin and his lot of authorities. It had worked thus far…  
  
Marguerite could not but blink as she and Armand were reunited-this was how life should be, not a guessing-game of where she stood with her husband. "I suppose you don't," she flashed back, in reference to his 'needing a reason to visit' her. "And you look absolutely-well-splendid!" grinning, she added; "You should-" she corrected herself, "-could stay here in England, with us, this time, Armand." she smiled briefly, before dancing out of reach. "We'll marry you off, and in no time you'll be just like Percy." her voice trailed off a little, Marguerite realizing what she'd just said. Oh, Lord...  
  
Armand jumped eagerly back to his feet, bowing in a rediculous, overdramatic fashion that perfectly imitated Percy. "Merci, mademoiselle!" Prancing after her, he laughed at her remark, paying no heed to the dip in her voice. "If that means I'll be rich and with a wife just as beautiful, then marry me off right now!" Armand, as he spoke, let his eyes rove over the vast room, and landing upon the vast open windows which led out onto a stone balcony with a beautiful view of the grounds about their home he paused in his carrying on, then turned to his sister with a more serious tone. He took hold of her hands, gently urging her towards the door. "The offer sounds lovely, Margot, but let's not talk about that now. It's a beautiful day and you shouldn't be shut up in this house the entire time. C'mon, let's go for a stroll. I've never seen your grounds in the summer time…"  
  
Marguerite giggled appreciatively at Armand's performance, blushing slightly. "It was you who should have been the actor, Armand, not me," she told him happily, standing up and extending her hand to his, in acceptance of his invitation. "Yes, let's," she agreed, poking her head out of the doorway, she pulled her hair out of its delicate combs and grinned mischievously. "Percy..." she called, "Armand and I are going for a walk..." best to let him know, you never could tell what he was thinking. If he wandered up here and found her gone, window open? She almost smiled again at the thought. hardly waiting for a reply, she grabbed her brother's hand again and started down the stairs in a blissful state; it was just as if they were children again, except for the fact she was wearing a day-gown, and him an aristocratic...well, whatever you wanted to call it.  
  
Armand pulled at the cuffs of his frock coat, somewhat aghast. "Now Margot, you know how bad I have stage-fright…" He took her hand, expecting a leisurely stroll out into the garden but instead found himself nearly dragged after his sister. It wasn't unusual… Armand could remember often the times they had gone about like this as children: her leading the way, sturdy and unbending though they were orphans, and despite how many times he had insisted on taking the lead she had pulled age on him. And she was older than him, if only by a year. Brave little Marguerite…she would never change. Not that he would want her to… Laughing in a like manner of gaiety he pranced after her, grinning widely as they passed the door to Percy's study which was open a mere inch or two. "Oui, monsieur! I'll try not to lose her!" Said cheerfully enough out loud, inwardly Armand felt the familiar stab of regret. It was a pain he always carried with him since those days in Paris. Marguerite had always been the mother to them both, looking out for her brother and sacrificing her own wants without heed. Armand hadn't been blind to this, even then, and as he grew older he swore he would reverse the roles and, like a proper man, he would take care of her. But it never seemed to happen. In his mind Marguerite was too independent and wild to be settled down anywhere. When they'd reached their ages she'd gone off and started working as an actress, gotten married, and what had he done? Back to the streets… But it was a passing thought. He didn't let that interfere with the present happiness of being with his sister. Nothing, not even regrets, could ever dim that. "Onward ho, mademoiselle!" he chirped, heading for the back door inside the den that led out into the garden.  
  
Percy felt a distinct wave of cold wash over him as his eyes took in the scrawlings of the letters laying about the desk. "Lord," he sighed, leaning forward to cover his face wearily. Did those French never stop? Not only had they the want to guillotine aristocrats, but now their entire families?! The Marquis de Searlas had been a watched-over target for a long while by the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He had his wife, his mother, his sister, and three small children living with him in Paris, and yet had been so stubborn to ignore the warnings the League gave him about the growing French mobs. Now he and his family were captured, prepared to be guillotined at dawn the next day. How could those black-hearted heathens possibly guillotine children? Of all people! "This is what you get for not listening," Percy mumbled, rubbing his forehead. But that was just exasperating his worry. Things would have to be done quickly in order for him to get the proper transportation and people there in time. Rising from his desk, Percy set about to make the necessary arrangements.  
  
He stopped when he heard first the voice of his wife and her brother. Looking up to the door, he saw through the small opening the flash of Marguerite's dress pass by. You're so worried about other families, he scolded himself in shame. You should be worrying about your own… "Have fun, you school children!" his ninny voice rang out on its own, giving no trace of his inward thoughts. It was all the better they should leave. If he was lucky, and all went well, he would be gone by the time they returned. God willing… Already taking pen to paper, Percy began writing, and paused after he'd not written but a few words.  
  
"To my dearly beloved Marguerite,"  
  
He couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Here he was, about to leave again without any warning. Leave his wife with only a note explaining his actions. What on earth did she think when she read these little letters of his? Wouldn't blame her one demmed bit if she thought I was having an affair, he thought bitterly. Even more if she went off to have one herself. Would serve me well… But he wouldn't allow himself to think of it any longer. It hurt too much. Taking a breath, he started writing again, grim with determination. Yes, he would be gone by the time they returned. 


End file.
